


issues

by fizzjam



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Cyborg!Reader, F/M, Prosthetic Sex Organs, Vaginal Sex, fizzjam's grand reveal: she's a massive weeb, idk how to tag tho, super self-indulgent, unapologetic intellectual theft from cyborg 009
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-18
Updated: 2017-03-18
Packaged: 2018-10-07 08:51:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10356723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fizzjam/pseuds/fizzjam
Summary: i got issues, you got 'em too, so give 'em all to me and i'll give mine to you.





	

**Author's Note:**

> title/summary taken from the julia michaels song.
> 
> so yeah i basically stole a bunch of plot from cyborg 009 and then smashed it up with overwatch because eyyyy cyborgs *finger guns*
> 
> this is nothing but self-indulgent trash if anyone expects anything else from me i'm sorry you'll be sorely disappointed by literally everything i write. maybe one day i'll be marginally less trash but until then here we are, the garbage brigade.
> 
> unrelated but uhm i guess if you like the 76 soulmate fic and wanna see more of that stuff let me know??? normally i just kinda go with ideas that come to me because i'm terrified everything will become samey (like dude my writing is so... one-trick pony i guess) but hey man if you like that thing i can try and write more of it!!!
> 
> until then enjoy this. i have an idea for blind!reader + roadhog and have been entertaining ideas for abo!mccree/reader so those will probably come along at some point. u _u but i start a new job soon and still need to focus on school so yanno we'll see what happens.

“Thalía,” you croak, grasping, reaching through twisted metal and shattered glass for her hand, “are you okay?” You can’t find her, can’t feel her; your mind is reeling, shaken and stirred, struggling to get a grip on what happened. The car’s wrecked and vaguely you remember another car, sleek and black, on the road, but things are so fuzzy, you can’t recall what caused it. Desperately, you crawl, trying to find her among the wreckage, and it’s made even worse by the fact that your legs won’t move.

Distantly, as if through walls, you hear footsteps. _Help_ , you think desperately, full of adrenaline, trying to get yourself together. But you’re so tired, hurt so much, and since help’s coming, you just lay back and let someone drag you out of the burning wreckage, roughly, uncaring for whether or not you scrape across the glass and pavement. “You have to find Thalía,” you beg, eyes out of focus, “she’s still in there, she was driving, please save her.”

If your saviors hear what you say, they give no indication. You’re heaved onto a stretcher like a heaping sack of meat and loaded into the barren back of a van with no medical equipment. The world spins and your stomach lurches and you try to find a point to focus on before blacking out again.

\--

When you wake next, you aren’t sure how much time has passed. You don’t hurt anymore; the only thing there to greet you is a blinding white light, and for a moment you’re sure you’ve died. But your senses return slowly: the light is above an operating table, where you now lay, and when you lift your hands to look at them, they’re fine, like you were never in an accident at all. Briefly, you wonder if you’d dreamed it, but as soon as you’re moving around, the dark silhouettes around your makeshift bed address you.

“Unit 0-089 is awake,” one of them says, “proceed running diagnostics.”

Your body is sluggish. You don’t understand where you are or what’s happening. Only when it all comes rushing back to you do you find your voice. “Where’s Thalía?”

They ignore you. They seem to be focused on the computer monitors lining the wall to your left.

“Where is Thalía Salvador?” you ask again, increasingly agitated. One of the doctors turns to look at you, regarding you as one regards a malfunctioning Roomba, and this look of utter disregard further fuels the growing feeling of dread and anger.

“Presumably it’s referring to the unit it was brought in with,” he says, “Unit 0-088.”

“Her name is Thalía,” you cut in angrily, despite your voice’s hoarseness from disuse, “and you’re going to take me to her right now.”

Again, they ignore you. “All vitals normal. According to these diagnostics, all neuroprosthetics are completely integrated and synthetic organs are operating at optimal levels.”

“Where the hell is my girlfriend?” you shout, lifting yourself off the table, wires running from your body. _Into your skin_ , outlets beneath the dermis, and it’s only then that you realize that you’re utterly scar-free despite the accident, your skin bearing barely-perceptible iridescent lines indicating where one plate ends and another begins.

“Please, 0-089, refrain from undue stress until the diagnostics are complete,” one of the doctors tells you, adjusting her goggles. “The success of this experiment relies on accurate data.”

“To hell with your fucking data, either you take me to see Thalía or I’ll give myself all the fucking undue stress I want!”

They look weary, like they’re attempting to negotiate with an uncooperative puppy during training. “Very well,” the first man agrees, “after we’re done running diagnostics, you can see 0-088.”

“Thalía,” you correct, seething as you lay back down on the table. They poke and prod, open up your skin (and you feel nothing; it’s starting to freak you out) to check various sensors and circuitry before finally they come to the conclusion that you’re a success.

“The most complete,” one woman gushes, an excited tremor in her voice, “none of the other units have ever been this lifelike, or maintained so much of their higher functions.” You swear you see tears behind her goggles. “It’s perfect. We’ve finally done it.”

Begrudgingly, they unhook you from what appears to be a monitoring system and lead you down the hall to a wide, open room, so white it’s sterile before LED screens on the walls flicker to life to show gardens and blue skies, and the world you know looks nothing like this. From the center of one of the opposite screens, a door opens, and in walks Thalía, looking dazed. But you pay no mind and rush over to her immediately, pulling her into a hug so strong you worry you might crush her.

It’s then you realize that your limbs are more than functional. Your body itself seems to suffer no fatigue despite being unconscious for an undetermined amount of time; probably has something to do with whatever cybernetics they’d gifted you in your sleep.

“You’re okay,” you breathe, so relieved that you start crying, clutching at her hair. You inhale deeply and much to your dismay, you find her hair doesn’t smell of mint and lavender. Thalía’s inherent scent of chamomile and soap is gone; in its place is something cold and inhuman, the scent of sterile lab and fake skin.

When you pull back to look her over, her eyes are an eerie shade of milky grey, unfocused, lacking any warmth or even awareness.

“What the hell did you to do her?!” you shout, turning to face the observing scientist angrily.

“Unit 0-088 technically did not survive the operation process,” the man replies clinically, “it was delivered in a condition unsuitable for traditional operation. We were forced to rebuild it from the ground up.”

Encroaching dread seizes you. You know instantly that you don’t want this man to finish.

“Unit 0-088’s interface is entirely programmed. It suffered, during instillation, permanent brain death.”

You study Thalía, unmoving, unblinking, in utter disbelief. _Permanent brain death_ , you think in despair, unable to come to terms with the fact that while she’s standing right here, Thalía is dead. You grab her shoulders and shake, cry and beg her to say _something_ to you to let you know they’re wrong, but she moves, impassive, like a ragdoll.

“Unit 0-088, state your primary directive.”

Something inside Thalía’s head whirs. Her eyes glow momentarily and she seems focused.

“Designation: Unit 0-088-2035. Primary directive: combat analysis and statistics.” The voice she speaks in is hers but isn’t, her vocal cords laid over something mechanical that forces her to speak.

“Analyze combat theory: Unit 0-088 and Unit 0-089.” The man seems disinterested in the proceedings.

“Analyzing…”

Again, something in her head whirs, like the sound of electricity moving through a thousand tiny circuits, and she remains perfectly still and focused for a long moment. “Complete. Unit 0-089 equipped with enhanced prosthetic musculature, right hand plasma blade, left hand machine gun, left leg rocket launcher, synthetic organs designed to withstand death blows and operate at 220% capacity. Result: Unit 0-088’s destruction.”

You, _you have all those things_ , and if you were to fight Thalía, right now, you’d destroy what’s left of her. You look down at your left hand and like something out of a horror movie, your fingertips pop open to reveal gun barrels. You turn to your right hand, disgust on your face as your hand splits open and from the inside of your arm comes a blade made of solid plasma.

“What the hell… have you done..?!”

You turn to look at the doctor behind you.

“We’ve made you into the perfect solider. You’re our first success, 0-089, the most complete of every experiment we’ve had until now. You’re virtually indestructible and powerful enough to give us the edge over the growing Omnic Crisis.”

Your mind reels all over again, despair settling in like a creeping menace. Thalía is dead, you are no longer human, and you can’t ignore the questions you have: where are you, _when_ are you? Who are these people and why did they do this to you? Why was it you, specifically? Did they cause the accident just to get to you and Thalía? For a long moment that seems endless, fractals looping into themselves, you are despondent, vacant, overwhelmed by the very reality around you.

You take a deep breath and everything becomes clear to you.

One turn, two steps, and you have your plasma blade buried inside the man’s stomach, twisting it harshly to aid in gutting him. He spills all over the floor before he collapses, chest heaving, grappling at you with this look of horror and pride on his face. You can’t stand to look at him and with a sickening crack, you sink your bare foot into his face so hard it caves in and leave him there.

“Thalía,” you begin, grabbing her hand, “we’re leaving.”

She doesn’t move, even as you use the rocket launcher in your leg to create a hole in the wall large enough for you to escape through. When you try to pull, she doesn’t go, and instead looks at you impassively, blankly, as though she stares across the void itself.

It hurts you in your chest when you realize what you have to do.

“Unit 0-088, follow me, we’re leaving.” you state firmly, even as your voice quivers. Her milky eyes come to life again and she regards you analytically.

“Unit 0-089 lacks the authority to initiate evacuation. Suggested course of action: remain here. It is inadvisable to cause further damage to the facility.” She sounds lifeless, a cruel facsimile of Thalía’s voice and face, something made specifically to wrench your heart from your chest. When more scientists pour in, you turn on them with renewed vigor, gunning down three and slitting the forth open like he’s on an autopsy table. You break walls and shatter monitors, move down the halls with every intention of leaving this place in ruins and carrying what’s left of Thalía out if that’s what it comes to.

Security corners you in what looks to be a mainframe, and you’re smashing everything you can, gunning down armed men when they get too close, and it takes twelve personnel in riot gear with sedatives to subdue you. You’re still kicking and shouting, slurred promises of revenge as soon as you wake up again. When they load you back into a cryopod, there’s talk of what will become of you.

“You’d better hope I never wake up,” you whisper as the door slides closed and your eyelids droop, “because I won’t rest until you’re all dead.”

\--

You wake again to different faces on the other side of the cryopod’s glass window, coming into focus slowly. “We got a live one!” a man’s voice shouts, and a massive blurred shape of black and white moves around outside. Everything sounds muffled, like they’re shouting from miles away, and even as the pod door releases, you still can’t make out anything for a moment.

Then, all at once, your cybernetic body reboots and everything is crystal clear, edges sharp. You can make out the tiniest noise and count every single silvery iridescent line on your skin. And with it comes memories, and immediately you sit up and lunge with the knife in your right hand, aiming to gut the new face just like you had the others.

“Whoa, hold on there—”

You’re grabbed by a hand that isn’t human. Upon inspecting him, you realize that he’s… very much a gorilla.

“Who the hell are you?! Where’s Thalía, where’s Unit 0-088?”

He looks at you in confusion. “I’m Winston,” he begins, releasing you warily, “and this laboratory has been abandoned for a long time, since before the Omnic Crisis ended.”

The Omnic Crisis… the scientists had mentioned that.

“I… what year is it…?”

Winston clears his throat. “The year is 2076. You’re in a facility in rural Poland.” Decades, you’d been gone for _decades_ , and you have no idea where Thalía is or if any of your family is even alive anymore. You look despondent all over again, faced a second time with news you have no idea how to process.

Winston seems to notice that you’re in no shape to be hearing this. “We’ll get you out of here, take you to a place where someone can answer your questions and run some tests.” Gently, he sets a hand on your shoulder, fingers pressing into something that makes a panel flip open, and he seems totally unfazed by this fact.

“Everything is going to be okay.”

\--

The place he refers to is a facility for something called Overwatch; apparently it’s a big deal, it ended the Omnic Crisis or something, but you have no idea what any of it means in or out of context. Winston says to visit a Dr. Ziegler when you’re ready to be filled in, but you aren’t ready to do anything.

You want to be dead. You wish that Winston had never pulled you out of cryostasis.

This is an Overwatch recall, Winston explains, but you only half-listen as you walk the halls of Watchpoint: Gibraltar and mope, because you have no idea what else to do. Thalía is gone, the people that could’ve explained anything to you are probably dead now, and all you have now are these people you don’t know, who talk to you like they care but you don’t know how to care back. Tracer, especially, seems to want to make you feel welcome, if her attitude is any indication, but you are unsure of how to interact with her.

“You know,” she tells you one day as she insists her way into a seat next to you in the mess hall, “Winston says you’re some kinda cyborg. You ever thought about talking to Genji? You might have a lot in common.”

The word cyborg makes you hurt. Your body is more machine than human now and no amount of thinking on it, pulling open panels to look at the circuitry inside you makes it any easier to digest. You think to yourself that whoever Genji is, you want nothing to do with him, or anyone that’ll call you a cyborg to your face.

Unfortunately for you, Genji seeks you out. He looks nothing like you expect, even more machine than you are, and looking at him makes your head and chest hurt. He looks outside like you look on the fucking inside and you want him to leave you alone.

“Lena mentioned you are having trouble adjusting here,” he begins, his accent thick, voice stretched over something mechanical like Thalía’s was, and it makes your skin crawl. “I am here to offer help if you would like it.”

At first you think ignoring him will make him go away, like all your other problems. But he persists, much to your chagrin.

“Please, at least tell me your name,” he says, an honest effort, and through the haze of depression and self-loathing, you find something in yourself, a spark of whatever you feel was taken from you.

“…(y/n),” you whisper, not even bothering to make eye contact. It feels foreign now, like the last person who addressed you by name has long since died.

“Well, (y/n),” he says, sounding happy, and it makes you cringe a little less this time, “my name is Genji. I am very happy that you are here, even if you do not think this is where you need to be.”

\--

When you finally get around to meeting with Dr. Ziegler, it’s at Genji’s repeated and almost perpetual insistence; she’s just as good a grief counselor as she is a doctor, he says, and at this point, you go mostly because you want him to leave you alone about it (in a decidedly less self-destructive way this time). He’s alarmingly good at cutting through your grief-inspired caustic bullshit and waiting out your attempts to ignore him and you have to wonder what kind of life he’s had if he can outmaneuver your evasion tactics so easily. You think to yourself that maybe you’ll ask him someday, when you’re less of a mess.

“Miss (y/n),” Dr. Ziegler, Angela, begins, “I am so very happy that you’ve finally come to see me! Please, sit down, let me run some basic tests and we’ll get started.”

It’s a basic physical at first: testing reflexes, bloodwork, X-Rays, and her bedside manner is second to none. You can see why Genji likes her so much; thirty minutes with her and you’re already in a better mood, and far more amenable to talking about some of what went down at the facility they dug you out of. It gives you this strange and abstract sense of hope, that even though you’ve spent decades asleep, there are still people like Angela Ziegler that exist, that might as well redeem humanity entirely for their existence.

Once the tests are done, she offers you a seat across from her as she begins to go through your results. “I can’t comment on the goal of whatever program you were part of,” she explains slowly, flipping through medical charts and bloodwork with this look of reserved professionalism. “I can, however, state that the cybernetics you’re enhanced with are some of the most advanced I have ever seen. You said that they mentioned something about the growing Omnic Crisis?”

You nod, and she looks simultaneously perplexed and in awe. “I’m responsible for Genji’s cybernetic augmentations and those were implemented _after_ the Omnic Crisis. To think that this kind of technology was available beforehand…” There’s this look of strange mutual doctor’s respect or something and it makes you uncomfortable. You want no praise for anything about you or those that did this to you. You think of Thalía, and how they managed to keep her brain running on programming alone and you feel sick.

She seems to understand this. “Allow me to clarify: while I admire the sophistication of the equipment you have, from what you’ve told me, all of this was done entirely against your will. As doctors, we take the Hippocratic Oath to do no harm and to breach that is to void one’s status as doctor.”

Even if it’s just a little, it’s enough to soothe the boiling anger in your chest. “I’m… sorry,” you tell her, voice strained, “I’m just not sure… how to handle anything anymore. I wish frequently Winston hadn’t pulled me out of cryostasis.”

She places a gentle and reassuring hand on your shoulder and offers you the friendliest smile you think anyone has ever given you before. It’s the kind of smile Thalía used to give you over dinner when it was your turn to cook and there, in Dr. Ziegler’s office, you finally allow yourself to grieve and cry for her.

\--

After opening up to Mercy, things get decidedly less awful. Still a little awful, admittedly, but you stop feeling like someone transplanted from a bygone era and find purpose in combatting the second Omnic Crisis. Sometimes, on the particularly bad days, you have trouble doing so; the main purpose of your augmentations are to battle the Omnic Crisis and the last thing you want is to give those scientists anything that they want, even if they’re dead (by your hands, probably).

“Do not think about why you should not help us,” Genji tells you whenever he sees that far-off look in your eyes, “and instead think of all of the people you are helping with us.”

He’s so good at reading you, at anticipating the flare-ups in anger and self-loathing that you wonder sometimes if he’s inside your head. He never misses a beat, always seems to be three steps ahead of you in your own skin, and for the first time, rather than getting upset, you’re thankful.

“It has taken me a long time to get here,” he explains one afternoon during meditation. He invites you frequently, says it helps you find what you’re looking for. “Zenyatta has played a large role in that, as well. Should you find any of my explanations lacking, please seek him out.” Zenyatta, you decide, must have the patience of a saint; from the way Genji describes himself before being rebuilt, it’s like he’s talking about an entirely different person. But you know, especially now, that time and distance provide more insight than ever before. Maybe that’s how you talk about yourself, too, like you’re reciting lines from the biography of an entirely different person.

Genji insists on integrating you into his routines, says it’ll help keep you out of your own head, and he’s right. You meditate with him and Zenyatta, attempt to outmaneuver D.Va in Starcraft, face off against Hanzo in high-stakes games of Go, and you find this sense of normalcy in all of it. You feel human, you can reconcile the person you were before and the person you are now, and for the first time, you’re glad Winston unearthed you.

Things change slowly. It’s little things at first—lingering touches, catching Genji studying you with his head tilted just so, contemplatively—and you find yourself savoring them and studying him yourself. He’s been very open about how he got here but sometimes you wonder what’s going on inside his head, if there’d be congruency between what he presents and how he feels.

One evening after meditation, you’re admiring the sunset over the Watchpoint, and he says, as if he’s discussing plans for dinner, “I’d like to kiss you.”

Thalía comes to mind so fast that you feel physically ill. All of the progress you’ve made feels insignificant now, and as much as you want to kiss him, it feels like betrayal. You were unable to prevent her from being hollowed out and computerized and the last thing you deserve is someone else, let alone someone who’s done as much for you as Genji, anywhere near your romance components.

“You don’t want that,” you reply after a long, heavy silence, “you really don’t.” For a second, you think you’ve effectively fucked things up. Genji’s quiet and so are you, and he’s staring at you like he’s trying to see past the iridescent lines marking your skin and into the circuitry and steel comprising most of your circulatory system now. But instead he takes your hand in his, and there’s strange comfort and kinship in metal on replica skin that makes your face flush.

“I understand if you are not ready to move on. If and when you are, you know where to find me.”

\--

Genji is stupid.

He has to be. You need to explain this to him. His attraction to you is misguided or something.

You find him meditating by himself and you can feel how he is keenly aware of your presence, so rather than playing dumb, you get right to it.

“I know you think you’ve got feelings for me or something, but you don’t, Genji,” you inform him solemnly, with indifference you practiced all the way over here to tell him. “You’re… I dunno. Looking for someone to help? And I’m a fucking mess, so that explains it.”

For a long moment, Genji is quiet; when he speaks, it’s just before you think he’s ignoring you.

“You think that I am too good for you,” he replies, and you hate how good he is at reading you, “because I appear to have my act together, as you put it.” He stands, fluidly, pieces of metal sliding across each other like scales and you can’t help but admire him. It takes until this moment, right now, that you realize the sophistication it takes to make something like this, and how everything inside you is precisely like that.

Genji is dangerous. Genji will be your undoing.

“I am not a good man, (y/n). I am reckless and selfish, I battle those parts of me every day. If you think that I am _better_ , then you are wrong. _Better_ is not a state of being, _better_ is handling the parts of you that would otherwise destroy you every day. Do you think I do not miss being entirely human? Do you think that I act as if the things that have happened to me, have not happened?”

All over again, rage and grief fill you. Genji needs to not understand you like he does. “Stop—stop it! You don’t understand anything about me, Shimada, you think you do, but you fucking don’t!” You turn away from him and pace and storm and froth as you shout. “I never asked for your help, I never wanted someone to dig me up! So just—fuck off, back to wherever it is you hung out before you decided to force yourself into what’s left of my life. Leave me alone.”

You turn to leave, but he blocks your exit, neon green lights illuminating the silvery lines in your skin. They’re impossible to ignore when they’re lit up like that.

“Whoever you lost,” he begins softly, “they do not blame you. They never would.”

Without even thinking, you move to shove your blade through his face plate, furious that he could even _think_ to bring up Thalía. Without even a little trouble, he has your wrist in one hand and the other holding you still, even as you squirm and cry and fight. Genji says nothing, simply holds you still as you tire yourself out, and then you’re leaning against him and sobbing bodily.

“You are allowed to be happy despite your failures, (y/n). If you are attracted to me, it does not mean you love this person any less.”

You wish more than anything Genji didn’t make sense, so that you could find relief in self-flagellation, tearing yourself apart to make sense of what happened.

There’s a hissing noise, and then his mouth is on yours, so tender that you almost don’t feel it at first. You realize belatedly that his face plate is gone, and that his hold on you is decidedly less about keeping you still and more about keeping you close. The contact is solid and warm, so good that you have no idea why you resisted so hard. All of the months of skirting around the attraction culminate in a kiss so achingly perfect that it brings tears to your eyes all over again. All of the feelings in your chest loop in on themselves, fractals spinning into one another, and it only stops once you pull away.

Genji’s eyes are dark, his face is scarred, and he looks at you like you’re the sunset hanging over the ocean outside the Watchpoint. Your heart is in your throat and you ache to kiss him again.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, unsure of what else to say. Both to him, and to Thalía, for having your head up your ass for so long.

“Don’t be,” he mutters, “life is too short for regret. You know this as well as I do.”

And then he’s kissing you again, harder, tongue pressed against the seam of your lips, hands moving down to hold your elbows, thumbs stroking over the sensitive insides of them. The metal is warm against your skin and you sigh, content to just be here, close to him. There’s a startling realization, however, when you feel heat flare between your thighs.

You’d honestly believed they’d removed the whole libido thing; what good is a working vagina on a cyborg soldier?

Genji’s mind seems to be in a similar place. “I do not know how to ask this politely, but… did they leave… certain parts in tact…?”

You’re quiet for a moment. “Yeah,” you reply awkwardly, “it still works. Kind of surprised myself.”

He smiles and your heart swells a little. He’s very cute when he smiles. “I have similar equipment, if you’d like to…” The look in your eyes says everything, it seems, as before he’s even finished, he’s reaching down to pull aside a plate on his armor, revealing a cock that’s the same dark steel color as the rest of him; upon touching it, however, it feels like skin, probably the same kind you’re sporting.

At the touch, he tenses. You know immediately he can feel it, and you bite your lip as you thumb across the tip.

“I have… thought about this for longer than I care to admit,” he confesses, pressing closer to you, and the thought makes your body heat spike. He seems prepared to say something else, but you’re kissing him again before he can, tugging teasingly at the head of his cock with your thumb and forefinger. He growls against your mouth, fingers slipping easily between your thighs to press up against you through your clothes.

That’s all it takes. You’re tugging at your shorts and panties to get them off before you’ve even adequately moved away for space, knocking into him more than once before you topple onto the ground and kick them off there. Genji joins you, pinning you to the floor in a way that makes heat suffuse you, and you look up at him with pupils dilated, expectantly.

His mouth finds one of your nipples through your shirt as he slips inside you, biting down in a way that makes you squirm. “Asshole,” you breathe, “I can’t even get to yours.” You can feel his smirk against the cotton of your shirt, and abruptly, you flip him over, sinking down onto him completely and pinning his hands to the floor above his head.

Unfortunately, leaning over him puts him close enough to bite at your skin still, even as you ride him. You groan in frustration until he flips you over again and goes back to what he was doing, the smile on his face full of adoration and similar emotions that make your chest hurt. “You will just have to feel enough for the both of us, then,” he says, using one hand to bring your hips closer to his, and then he’s fucking you earnestly, hard enough that you think you might hurt if you weren’t part machine yourself. He’s got his teeth around one nipple again, tugging, sucking gently each time you hiss in pleasure edged with discomfort. He’s good at this; you remember talking about how he’d been young and reckless beforehand and you figure a natural extension of this would totally be multiple partners.

His breath gets short and you can tell he’s close, but before you can egg him on, he has one hand between your legs, stroking reverently across your penetrated entrance before he finds your clit and rubs, insistently, furiously, like he plans on ripping an orgasm from you regardless of whether you’re along for the ride. “Fuck, it’s too much, Genj—”

But then you’re coming, hard, bucking and mewling and squealing, constricting around his cock, and then he comes, too, and it’s mildly surprising to feel his release searing hot inside you. Orgasm pulls you through the eye of a needle, and it’s only coming down that you think to ask about it.

“So when you…” you begin hesitantly, “was that actually…?”

“Yes,” he replies, “my reproductive organs are still in tact.” Pause. “Are yours…?”

“Yes and no?” you tell him slowly. “There’s still everything in there, but Mercy is pretty sure the eggs were all removed. Sterile like a hospital.”

There’s another beat of silence before both of you break into shy laughter. You aren’t sure why. Maybe it makes the reality of the situation a little less shitty.

You’re both lying down on the floor, backs to the ceiling while you catch your breaths, when Genji speaks.

“Maybe we could find them,” Genji murmurs, “your eggs. Winston said the laboratory still seemed to be functional. Maybe they are still there.”

Your heart swells a little. There’s definitely an implication there and he knows you know it, too.

“Genji Shimada,” you admonish playfully, “are you asking me out on a date?”

Genji turns towards you and grins. “That depends on whether or not you say yes.”


End file.
